I have too. I’m thrilled to be one of the sponsors providing an option for somebody who might not otherwise have a chance to get their work seen in one of the most prestigious novel contests out there: somebody who might be the next children’s author to stay in a reader’s heart for decades.

If you’re entering, sponsored or otherwise, good luck!

And if you’re a Roald Dahl fan, you might like to read my interview with him from 1981. It’s here.

The photos show my 1968 copy of The Golden Goblet by Eloise Jarvis McGraw with a later edition I bought for her to sign when I met her at a writer’s conference, and my 1966 copy of The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien which I read in 1968 (aged eight) after hearing an episode of the BBC Radio 4 dramatisation.

Nostalgia, though a potent marketing force, is deadly in art. It transforms rich, emotional imagery into one-dimensional kitsch. So much poetry is devoted to nostalgia, both in content, and style. American poetry, especially, seems to begin and end with Whitman. Whether it’s the hallowed verse of Robert Frost, the ballads of Guthrie and Dylan, the feminist emergence of the 1970s, and today’s poetics of diverse witness and identity, American poets continue our undying riff on Song of Myself. Today, poets broadcast from a studio that bills us as half confessional talk-show guest and half political talking head pundit. Identity defines audience, trauma shapes identity, and trauma is thrust on us from our past. Hence our inescapably backward gaze.

Ironically, this comes at a time when objective Truth is devalued on the cultural right and the left alike. While our poetics cry out to heaven about the sanctity of individual experience, the poet must never assert a belief in anything like the objective truth of it all. Every statement must be suggestive of mystery, of postmodern uncertainty, always open to personal interpretation. Now, even as we ape “What I assume, you shall assume” in form and style, in substance we must never stop asking, “But what do you think?” To me, in this cultural and political climate, that’s a luxury no one can afford. To not only say, “This is what I am thinking,” but also “Think like me, if only for a moment” is perhaps the poet’s deepest calling, yet it is the one unforgivable sin for any writer. As the late, controversial essayist Mark Fisher tragically wrote, “Remember: having convictions is oppressive, and might lead to gulags.”

There’s the fine line I try to walk in BLUING: to write observationally, but in a way that is open to meaning, and not just mystery. I hope you will check it out yourself. The poems in it are both old and new. When I wrote many of them, I was reading a lot of Robinson Jeffers, the great “Inhumanist” poet of Carmel, California. Lesser known today, his sparse verse was a fixture of American poetry between World Wars I and II, describing the harsh and astonishing beauty of the California Coast, letting the landscape speak the natural truth of itself in the absence of human values to interpret it. Now, as a resident of the Pacific Northwest, I recognize a lot of Jeffers in the ecological “poetry of place” we tend to write here. So much of it falls apologetically short of its subject matter, however, by daring less certainty than the rocks, waters, and trees it describes.

The poems in BLUING aim for Jeffers’ scandalous insistence that objective truth does not depend on humans to tell it, but with a pained consciousness that his wild coasts are now our suburbanized, gentrifying enclaves. We have no choice but to reinsert humanity into that rugged landscape today, and to write of ecology devoid of a human presence is to ignore the savage beauty where it lives. Perhaps I’ll mockingly say I’m starting a new “Rehumanist” school of poetry, looking for the meaning of moments captured from both human and natural worlds. Either way, I wrote BLUING as a balm for anyone battered by our post-truth culture. I’m glad if it holds meaning for you too.

Note that I haven’t titled this ‘How to have your stories accepted’ – if only I had that formula. However, in the past couple of years (between working on a novel) I’ve written three short stories and a short memoir piece, and all four have found their way to publication via contests or literary journals. I’ve also had a novel shortlisted in a competition.

Four pieces published isn’t many, but nonetheless I see a pattern or two along the path to them being accepted. These things might or might not work for you, but I think they helped me.

Here’s what I’ve learned.

Keep submitting, but use an editor’s eyeIt goes without saying that you have to not worry about rejection and keep submitting.

(Track your submissions; I use a spreadsheet that records the title, the date sent, where sent, and when a response is expected.)

The first of the four I wrote was a short memoir piece, specifically to submit to a contest in 2016. It was the first time I’d tried anything like that and it didn’t make even the longlist. Well, I thought: I’ve written it. I should keep sending it out. So I tried a literary journal, but they rejected it too.

By then it was a few months since I’d finished working on it (with much re-editing and polishing; I’m not a fan of sending anything out until I’ve inspected each word as though it’s a bug under a rock) and I decided to edit it again. The first paragraph was nice enough but I struck it, wove the main image from it in further down, and cut a few other words and sentences. I tried another literary journal and boom: accepted.

I also did this with the first short story I wrote, though I left it a little longer before editing again. Five rejections in, I tackled it again, not structurally but by interrogating each word. If a word couldn’t put up a defence I removed or changed it. I was submitting this story to contests; after the edits I sent it out again; it was selected for publication, placing third.

What I learned: Don’t be resistant to running a newly critical eye over your story, especially if you haven’t looked at it for a while and it’s been rejected a few times. A final tweak might be all it needs and the fix might now be quick and obvious.

Consider doubling up on contest entriesTwo of my short stories were very different from each other in style. One was a more traditional literary approach, the other more experimental. I submitted the second, more experimental one to a contest. Then I studied the judge and thought maybe the other story would appeal more, so at the last minute I sent it in too. And that was the one selected for publication.

I then submitted the rejected story from that contest to another as an afterthought, as I’d already entered my third short story, which once again I’d spent months writing and thought was my best so far. The “afterthought” story (which I’d re-edited as it had been rejected several times by then) was the one that made it; this was the one that took the aforementioned third prize.

What I learned: It’s very hard to predict what contest judges are going to like. If you have two very different stories (assuming both meet the contest rules) and you can afford the contest fees, it may be worth throwing both in the ring. For journals, this probably isn’t a good tactic as they have a different agenda.

Follow the rulesWhether it’s a journal or a contest, read and follow the rules. They might call them ‘guidelines’ but guidelines they are not: they’re rules. Break even one and your story will not be considered.

It’s not just the rules; it’s what competitions and journals tell you they want to see. Matching this as closely as possible can only be helpful.

Left with my third short story, I debated what to do. I’d already entered it in several contests (and as we know, that is not cheap) and it had failed to make it. I still thought it was my best story; I’d spent months writing and rewriting it.

Once again I cast a critical eye over it. And once again, I removed the first paragraph (I’m starting to think I should do this as a standard practice!) and wove an image from the opening into the narrative later. This time I did restructure it slightly as I saw a better dramatic flow. I also changed the title: it took me two days to come up with something I thought captured the essence better than the old title.

Then I found a journal that was extremely specific about the type of fiction they wanted and I thought, that sounds like this story. I submitted … and it was accepted.

What I learned: Don’t give up. And edit. And be very specific in your choices of where to send your work. And … don’t give up.

Good luck with your submissions, and happy writing!

Photos from Wikimedia Commons; the first one is ‘Boy Studying’ by Lewis Hines, 1924.

Patrick Howse began writing the poems in his collection, Shadow Cast By Mountains, while covering the Iraq War for the BBC.

War plays a central part in the book, but he is reluctant to describe himself as a “war poet”, and the poems are not restricted to descriptions of the conflict in Iraq.

“I regard the book as a single, extended narrative which tells the story of the world I was born into, my war experiences, how they changed me, and the world that emerged from the wreckage,” he says.

“The poems in the collection are almost all coloured by Iraq and other conflicts, and in that respect Edward Thomas has been a huge influence on me.”

Thomas was killed fighting in the First World War, but wrote only one poem that described events in the conflict.

“I would say that most of my poems are not ‘about’ the Iraq War,” Patrick says. “I’m not trying to be a war poet like Wilfred Owen, much as I admire him. I’m much more interested in the impacts of war on me and on the world around me than in just writing descriptions of the action.”

He also says the book can be read as a love story.

“It charts how I came to terms with my experiences, and how – when I was at my lowest point – I found a soulmate who helped me save myself.”

The collection is illustrated with Patrick’s own field sketches as well as 17 original paintings by his partner, the German artist Inge Schlaile, who paints under the work-name Schlinge.

John Simpson, the BBC’s World Affairs Editor, has written a foreword for the book.

“This kind of work in places like Baghdad takes its toll,” he says. “Patrick has found an elegant way of coping with the strain: he has turned it into poetry”.

Shadow Cast By Mountains is published by Hayloft, and can be ordered here

About the authorPatrick Howse worked for the BBC for 25 years and began his career in Manchester. He then moved to London before covering conflicts in Northern Ireland and the Middle East. Between 2004 and 2009 he was bureau chief for the BBC in Baghdad. He now works as a writer, and trains conflict journalists from major international news organisations in Kent. You can see samples of his poetry here.

About the publisherHayloft is a small independent company and publishes books on a range of subjects, including history, mountaineering, poetry, humour, rural life, novels and memoirs. The company has won seven awards at the UK’s Lakeland Book of the Year competition. You can view their website here.